


Sleepwalkin'

by versigny



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M, For a Friend, Friends to Lovers, Prom, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 06:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10238507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/versigny/pseuds/versigny
Summary: "I fell in love and needed a road map to find out where you lived."-Sleepwalking (Couples Only Prom Night Dance), by Modest Mouse





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> i love you, by the way.

“Everyone’s looking at us.”

You can’t and won’t get over the tacky baby blue of Johnny Suh’s tux – to hell with the fact that it looks so good on him and it’s fitted to a T. He says it’s vintage and belonged to his father, who wore it to his prom, and maybe he just said it to make you feel better about the fact that you got your dress from a secondhand shop and it’s actually an old wedding gown (even if it you wouldn’t know it from first glance).

“Good,” he brushes off your whispered remark casually, easily, “let them.”

You wonder if he’s just more confident than he sounds. When you’re six foot something and, well, Johnny Suh, you sort of just have to be. A lifetime’s worth of unwanted attention for being tall and handsome and charming will build a person into a sentinel of composure no matter what the circumstances.

These are things you think about often, but that habit all melts away when his hand shifts in yours.

Johnny has been your best friend for a long time – too long, you argue jokingly. Sort of. The process of going from shoving sand into each others’ pants to trading snacks at lunch and then sharing homework answers and sitting behind the gas station on the walk home, sipping root beer and feeding the stray cats, to finally not knowing what to even say when he asks you to homecoming is all just a stupid blur when you think back.

You spite him a little for handling it so elegantly. But he always works best under pressure.

“Quit stressing,” he chides, nudging your head gently with his nose and running his thumbs across the back of your knuckles. Every little gesture like this is so minute but so electric, stirs all of the dormant feelings you had been tamping down and stewing in for an amount of time you couldn’t even count. Tentatively, you edge a little closer, hoping he won’t notice because it’s just a slow dance and you’re both just swaying like something out of the background of a dream of a movie.

“I’m always stressing,” you mumble back, and he just snorts. 

“Don’t make me have to distract you, then.”

The hand, firm and heavy and warm on your hip, doesn’t budge – but he does edge you closer, too. His hair curtains just around his eyes in a way that is almost shy, almost sensual – definitely a 90s movie protagonist, you think – and he gives you a crooked smile that leaves you a bit dazed.

“You’re already distracting me,” you breathe back before you can hold you tongue. Johnny is kind enough to roll his eyes and look bashful.

“Yeah, well,” he sighs, wetting his lips briefly with a flick of his tongue that makes your chest rattle with too many sensations, “you’re not helping my case, either.”

“How’s that?” you retorted, fully sarcastic. The guitar strumming lazily over the speakers kept the mood light, cheesy-romantic instead of too suffocating. The bodies and hormones surrounding you did enough of that already.

You expected some impolite quip from your friend, or date, or whatever he was. Soulmate, if you were being real – because you could not imagine a life without Johnny at your side, be it in love or otherwise – and in perfect habit, he outmaneuvered you literally and figuratively.

Humming along with the tune, he effortlessly pulled you away to spin you under his arm once, your pale skirt flaring out like a white lilypad for a long second before he tugged you back in. This time, he catches you with both hands on your waist and your own arms instinctively wrap around his neck.

And you are slow dancing properly, like a real couple.

You know you must look like a fool, lips parted in breathless silence and anticipation, eyes large and waiting for something that might never happen. It’s just your luck that he happens to think you look best like that.

“Sorry,” he mumbles suddenly, his own gaze glazed and full of something smoldering, something he takes care to hide all the time.

Swallowing thickly, you ask, voice weak and nervous, “For what?”

He gives himself a moment of pause to find his courage. He’s not used to having to do that.

But you bring out the best in him.

“Kissing you so suddenly,” he finally answers, smiling, and then he is – mouth covering yours sweetly and firmly. It’s like he draws all of the air out of you in a single motion and locks you against his heart, and his lips trace soft secrets against your own; little promises of a house with a picket fence and long walks on empty beaches, late night bubble baths and movie dates that you’ll be far too old for.

None of the teachers step in or stop you, thankfully, and you feel like a completely different person when he breaks away. In a good way, though – like this is the person you were meant to be.

“Oh,” you utter, voice really cracking this time as a half-smile automatically takes over your face, “gosh. H-hey, um, maybe – maybe one more of those? For good luck?”

Johnny is grinning so big his eyes have almost disappeared, and you can even see his ears going a faded shade of cherry, reminding you of how there is nothing, nothing better in the world than seeing him this happy. He’s already leaning in to accommodate your request when he coos, “I thought you didn’t like that everyone was watching?”

“Cool,” you replied, scooching up to close the gap. “Let ‘em.”

Somehow, the second kiss is even better – and the third after that.

After the fourth, the teachers intervene. You’d think it would be more humiliating walking home on dark, empty roads in a retired wedding dress with a tall, lanky boy in his dad’s old suit, smiling and laughing and holding your shoes for you, but somehow it isn’t.

Maybe because it’s Johnny.

It’s always Johnny.


End file.
